


JWP 2019 #23: Poppies Are Red

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: PTSD, Poetry, Prompt Fic, References to real people, Retirement, Surviving, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Holmes and Watson in the aftermath of war and grief. Written for JWP 2019 #23.





	JWP 2019 #23: Poppies Are Red

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not Entirely Futile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/872646) by [methylviolet10b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b). 



> Warnings: Likely related to both [Not Entirely Futile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/872646) and [Doggerel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427345). This might make more sense if you've read those, but then again, it might not. References to war, death, and depression. References to poetry. And written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> Prompt: Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, Remove the Impossible and What's Left Is True: Be poetic! Write a poem, or have the characters reference or quote poetry. Music lyrics count.

“He had such talent, Holmes.” Watson touched the slim volume with a hand that still trembled at odd moments. “He showed me some of his work, you know. Asked me if I thought it was any good, as if I could be a judge of that. As if there could be any doubt of it. Such a loss.”

What could I say to that? It was true of course; but it was true of millions of others, too. Boys and men sent to fight and die. Helpless civilians ground to dust. All caught between the grindstones of the pride and ambitions of nations, grist for the mill, turned to dust and ashes.

I couldn’t say any of that, or anything like it. I fell back on curiosity. “Have you read any of these?”

“I don’t know.” Watson touched the cover again, then turned to me, eyes dim behind the wire-rimmed spectacles he wore now. “I didn’t recognize any of the titles, but what he shared with me hadn’t any at the time. And I don’t think I want to read any of them just now. Perhaps in the morning, in the sunshine and in the peace of our garden.” He sighed. “I’m very tired, Holmes.”

“Then go on upstairs to bed, dear fellow. It’s late, and I’m ready to retire myself. I’ll just bank the fire and make a few last notes on my latest experiment, and then I’ll be off to bed too.”

Watson smiled a little and nodded. He limped heavily going up the stairs, stiff with old wounds and new and the weight of all the wars he’d seen. It would be another night when the light would remain on in his room, I could tell. I could only hope the illumination would keep his darker dreams at bay.

I opened the book once I heard Watson reach his room safely. I only meant to glance through the contents, but a passage snagged my eyes, capturing exactly how I thought the war and its dead still haunted my friend, and ever would.

> “I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.   
> You’ll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,   
> And climb your throat on sobs, until it’s chased   
> On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 23, 2019.
> 
> The quote is from "Wild with All Regrets" by Wilfred Owen.


End file.
